


It's Not Official Until It's Facebook Official

by redbrunja



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 08:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/pseuds/redbrunja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things Clint Barton has no intention of ever telling another living soul. The dying words of his S.H.I.E.L.D recruitment officer. Anything relating to his time in Prague, in 2005. That he made a facebook page for the sole purpose of friending Darcy Lewis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not Official Until It's Facebook Official

**Author's Note:**

> This was written prior to The Avengers release... and you can tell, frankly. Still, I hope you enjoy!

There are things Clint Barton has no intention of ever telling another living soul. The dying words of his S.H.I.E.L.D recruitment officer. Anything relating to his time in Prague, in 2005. That he made a facebook page for the sole purpose of friending Darcy Lewis.

Yeah.

He's taking that one to the fucking grave.

Clint isn't quite sure when exactly it happened. Darcy started out as just Coulson's assistant with the great rack, the one who wrote informative and entertainingly snarky précis on whatever overdramatic villain S.H.I.E.L.D was going to take down next. She was even more of a kick in person and Clint found himself spending more time leaning against Darcy's desk and rearranging her office supplies while she got all snippy and slapped at his hands than actually debriefing with his boss.

So, yeah, that was one clue he was into her.

Another was when, in the middle of a boring mission that had seemed to involve him killing a ridiculous amount of time in an obscenely expensive hotel in Seoul, he registered with (on? sold his soul to? he wasn't sure about the appropriate terminology) Facebook. Unsurprisingly, her status updates quickly became the highlight(s) of his day. Surprisingly, that didn't change once he was finally stateside.

It did change once he was back in New York and had the chance to get in-person Darcy Lewis sit-reps.

He's not stupid; he knows what it means when any interaction with Darcy is approximately a thousand times more interesting than everything else and he spends three quarters of his waking hours fantasizing about her boobs and mouth and glasses. But he's not going to ask her out. Not only because she's currently 'in a relationship,' not because she's significantly younger than him, but because he is not a moron. He is fully aware of his track record with women. It always starts out fun and then ends with them getting fed up with him going OUTCONAS with very little warning and then moving out while he's gone. Okay, that only happened once, but still. That kind of thing sticks in a guy's mind.

Dating Darcy would be fucking awesome but when it ended (and it would) she'd be pissed at him, he'd be miserable, and Coulson would probably sent him on a long, deep cover mission in Siberia, where he'd have plenty of time to think about how much better his life was when Darcy was in it.

So Clint pretended to think of Darcy like the little sister he never had and she treated him like he was hot but off limits and... it worked. It worked right up until the Friday he sauntered up to her desk at quitting time and went, "A little bird told me you know a place that serves the best empanadas in existence and has a kickass jukebox. Let's visit this Mecca."

Darcy stopped typing, looked at him like she was considering throwing up in the wastebasket under her desk and went, "fuck no."

Clint raised his eyebrows.

"What, did they give you food poisoning?" he asked.

"No," Darcy said and the phone rang. Clint checked his smartphone while Darcy snowballed a United States senator.

Huh. Turned out Darcy was single. As of.... he checked the post time. 12:13 this morning.

He held the screen of his cell phone in her direction. "Your boyfriend called it quits at Siempre Viernes?" he clarified, trying to sound like he wasn't secretly thrilled. (He was so thrilled. He hadn't been this delighted since he watched Natasha thrash three Spetsnaz operators who'd been about to remove his teeth while wearing pearls and nothing else.)

"Yes," she said in a voice like lead.

Clint suddenly realized how bad a breakup it must have been to make this girl not want to return to a place that served amazing Mexican food and had a jukebox with every song recorded from 1970 to 1986. Very, very bad.

Darcy suddenly groaned and rolled her eyes. "Fuck, I'm acting like one of Those Girls. Okay, fine, we're going to Siempre Viernes in twenty minutes. But you are buying me a truly ridiculous number of margaritas."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, throwing her a crisp salute.

Siempre Viernes was exactly Darcy's kind of place. Friendly staff, a strong serving of kitsch, phenomenal food.

And admittedly, Clint hadn't yet tasted the food, given that they'd only walked in the door, but the buzz of happy diners and the enticing aroma of spice and melted cheese that had hit the instant he entered promised delicious things.

Even with the reservation Darcy had texted in, there was still a wait, and they made their way to the bar.

"I am literally going to start with two margaritas," Darcy promised, "don't think I won't."

Clint chucked. "I look forward to carrying you home," he retorted.

"Oh, ye of little faith," she said.

The bartender had just set their drinks down when Darcy went, "oh, fuck," and ducked into his chest, hiding her face.

"My ex," she moaned into his t-shirt and it was only fifteen years of military discipline that enabled Clint to understand what she was saying. Jesus Christ, this girl had the best curves on the planet. Was there anything on her that wasn't soft and enticing? He reached up, stroked her hair. She clearly needed some comforting. And the answer was 'no,' there was nothing on this girl that wasn't soft and enticing.

"The rat bastard," she said, peeking up over his shoulder. "He brought a date. He fucking broke up with me _yesterday_ , here, _at this restaurant_ , I _introduced_ him to this restaurant..." She looked up at him, focused on his face. "Would pretending you're my new boyfriend and making out with you be totally immature?"

Clint almost (almost, almost, almost) took her up on it. He was a hairsbreadth away from sliding his hands down her back, cupping her ass, pulling her tight against her, and kissing the fuck out of her.

Siberia, Siberia, Siberia, he repeated to himself, and went, "You have zero undercover training."

Darcy blinked at him. Her lashes were ridiculously long. "I'm Phil's assistant, not Mata Hari. I think Black Widow has that role covered."

"You call him Phil?" Clint asked and reached past Darcy to grab his beer. "He lets you call him Phil?" Forget Siberia, he'd probably end up on Neptune. "Never mind. No, see, undercover. The key is not overplaying it." He took a long swallow, relishing the coolness, the burst of hops across his tongue. It made a nice distraction from wondering what Darcy would taste like. Not fruit; she hadn't touched either of the two colorful drinks currently moist with condensation on the bar.

Darcy made a go-on sound. She was still standing way too close. It would be so easy to kiss her. He wasn't that tall, her mouth was _right there_ \- he could lean down just the smallest bit–

"If you were my girlfriend," Clint said, and his voice sounded way too low and serious for this conversation. "I wouldn't be necking with you in the middle of a crowded restaurant. I wouldn't need to brag that you were mine, I'd know. You'd know."

Fuck being smart. Fuck Siberia and Neptune. What was life without a little risk?

He set his beer down, hooked his fingers in the loops of her jeans, tugged her hips close enough that she could unmistakably feel how much he wanted her.

"And everyone else would know, just by the way I'd look at you," he continued, mouth a fraction from hers. She licked her bottom lip, wetting it.

"Clint," Darcy started, pupils dilated, and some douche bag loudly cleared his throat in Clint's blind spot.

Another thing Clint Barton would not reveal under torture or congressional subpoena: that time he was so distracted by Darcy's mouth that he let some untrained, hipster prick sneak up on him.

He whirled.

Behind him was a tall, weedy guy who glared at Darcy.

"Who the hell is this?" the ex said.

"You're interrupting something awesome, go away," Darcy snapped.

"What, your little ploy to make me jealous?" Darcy's ex sneered. "So obvious. He's a complete meathead. _Totally_ not your type." He looked dismissively at Clint, clearly channeling four years of hating the high school football team. "Seriously, bro, did she, like, _pay you_ to do this? Or are you taking it out in trade?" He focused on Darcy again, and clearly went for the lowest, most hurtful blow he could. "I'd suggest you take cash, she's a selfish cow between the sheets."

Clint took one beat to let that sentence end, to be sure that Darcy's ex had practically given Clint written permission to beat the shit out of him, and then stepped forward.

Darcy was faster.

She slipped between them and shoved her taster right into her ex's skinny stomach.

He went down like a rag doll.

"Wanting _one orgasm_ a night is not being selfish!" she yelled, her words ringing through the restaurant.

"One orgasm a night, huh?" Clint repeated, because sometimes he was a total bastard. And also, seriously? Darcy really needed to raise her standards. Not, you know, too high, but still.

Darcy made an abortive gesture with her taser, like she wanted to zap her ex again. Or maybe Clint. Or possibly herself.

"I- It just takes a long- never mind," she muttered, blushing. She looked at the floor like she wanted it to swallow her up.

Clint pulled out his wallet, thanking god that he had the foresight to bring cash. The bartender was already staring at him but even so, Clint made a little motion with a twenty and then set it on the bar.

"Have I mentioned," he said, grabbing Darcy's left hand (the one not holding the taser) and tugging her towards the exit, "that snipers tend to be very, very patient?"

"No?" Darcy said, looking at him like she wasn't quite sure he was real.

He raised one hand, attempting to flag a taxi, as he stared at her. "I am very, very patient," he said, voice low.

Much later in the evening (three orgasms later, to be specific), Clint leaned halfway out of the bed, snagged his pants from the floor, and fumbled his wallet out of his pocket.

Sprawled next to him, Darcy turned her head, stared at him suspiciously over the top of her glasses.

"You're not one of those guys who has to blog after sex, are you?" she asked suspiciously.

He smirked at her, tapped a few keys. After a minute, Darcy's phone vibrated. She narrowed her eyes and then reached for it, checked her e-mails.

He watched her face go through this delightful range of emotions when she read the facebook notification - pleasure, disbelief, uncertainty and then- when he leaned over to playfully bite her shoulder, possibly adding another love-mark to the collection she already had along her neck - back to pleasure again.

She accepted his relationship request.


End file.
